


The Edge of Morality

by barricadedestroyer



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempt Recovery, Black Javert, Disabled Character, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury Recovery, Internalized racism, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Barricade, Post-Seine, Recovery, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt, This is the first fic I've wrote in a while go easy on me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadedestroyer/pseuds/barricadedestroyer
Summary: Javert miraculously survives his fall into the river Seine and is rescued by none other than Jean Valjean. However, his fall leaves him severely injured and unable to continue his normal everyday life. He must now rely on the only willing carer he can find - the man who rescued him.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes: 
> 
> \- This is only the prologue - there's far more plot after this chapter, and the others chapters are likely to be far longer.  
> \- This fic is based off a combination of the 2012 movie, the musical theatre adaptation and the novel.  
> \- Details surrounding the fall have been changed to make it survivable (mostly the height) but it is most similar to the fall portrayed in the movie.  
> \- I did consult my bio/med student friend about the injuries that could occur from such a fall but I'm a law student so suspend your disbelief a little.

Javert stares down into the swirling depths, the dizzying fall below him seemingly swallowing his mind, like a predator engulfing its prey. This is it. The point of no return. His inner sense of self-preservation is screaming at him, begging him to step back, turn around, and return back to the station where he belongs. Where he fits in. Where everything used to make sense. 

But that isn’t the case. Not anymore.

Should he just find the willpower to put his foot just far enough over the edge, it’d all be over. The moral anguish plaguing his mind, searing him like a white-hot branding iron, inside and out...would be over. He breathes deeply, trying to regain some kind of clarity of thought, but with the vivid, violent imagery of everything he has seen over the last few days it is nigh impossible. The Inspector’s mind vanishes beneath a cloud of mist and uncertainty. Nothing makes sense anymore, does it? He’s trapped. He’s trapped because this time, there is no moral path to take. If he lets Jean Valjean free, he abandons the very foundation of his moral compass for as long as he can remember; if he returns to his post, and sets out to arrest the man who freed him, he continues to uphold the injustices he has witnessed kill so many - not to mention, depriving a fundamentally good man of his liberty.

But it makes no sense! No, it can’t be! Jean Valjean is a criminal, and nothing more. A criminal, once he has committed his crime, is a criminal before he is anything else. Once a thief, always a thief. There are people whose moral convictions, whose ways of life, are so deeply ingrained into the very fabric of their identity, that to stray from them would be simply unthinkable. And yet, here is Jean Valjean: an old convict, no doubt, acting in a way that the Inspector could only describe as...good. Merciful. Kind. It just doesn’t make sense. 

Javert closes his eyes, sighing deeply, and once again his thoughts are filled with red. The flag. The flash of gunfire. Blood. So, so much blood. On both sides. He, at once, sees the bodies of his fallen fellow officers, littering the street as plentiful as droplets on a window pane during a thunderstorm, and the doll-like, glassy-eyed stare of the young street urchin who fell to his own men’s gunfire. He, in his own way, in his own mind, is guilty of every single one of these murders. He, the paragon of virtue and righteousness, had allowed these atrocities to occur. How can he call himself a tool of justice in such circumstances, when he has failed his most basic duty: his duty to the people. 

He opens his eyes once more, and looks down. What else is there to do, at this point? When there is no moral path left to walk, then the only truly righteous thing left to do is surrender one’s place in the problem - in life - completely. Suicide may be a sin, but not so grave a sin as persisting in such an unjust and cruel world. And so, as he continues to gaze out into the merciless abyss of the current beneath him, he hoists himself up onto the railing, the line between life and death, and turns to face the black and cold stars once more.

He falls backwards, all at once, and plummets at an astounding speed towards the rushing Seine below. An audible crack echoes in the air as his back hits the weir jutting out of the water, and everything goes dark.

So goes the end of the honourable Inspector Javert - or, at least, what should have been...


	2. In Which Javert Regains Himself

As light once again fills the Inspector’s vision, he supposes for a moment that he is dead.

At first, there is nothing but a dim glow to the right of his vision. He can feel something covering his chest and legs, and there is an oddly soft weight around his shoulders. The room is warm, but his skin still feels cold. Time around him seems slow, like a carriage attempting to drive through a particularly thick mud. It is as if he is, at once, both awake and asleep. There is no pain, just a dull ache around his ribs and back.

So this is the afterlife, he thinks, what a bizarre existence - but, of course, no more bizarre than a world where a criminal can be a good man.

He closes his eyes again, once more, trying to collect himself and focus on his surroundings. When he opens them again, he can see a little more: heavy white covers pulled over his body, the moving shadows cast by a small, hesitant flame burning on a candle on the bedside table, and the faded green wallpaper peeling ever so slightly where it meets the crown molding. Everything is silent, apart from the ticking of a large grandfather clock by the corner and his own faint, shallow breathing, in and out, like a metronome ticking in time with the rise and fall of his chest.

But wait, if he’s dead, then why is he breathing?

He tries once again to recollect everything that happened. He had been at the barricade, yes, that had happened. He had been captured by those revolutionaries - that young boy had recognised his face, and _‘les amis’_ had responded by knocking him out and restraining him in rope, kept like some sort of prisoner of war. He was going to be executed, and then...then _he_ arrived.

The criminal. Jean Valjean. He had swept in, the man of the hour, and feigned executing him, before setting him free. And then...he had met him again, some time before the bridge. He had one of them on his back, badly wounded and covered in dirt. It would be a miracle if the boy did not die from infection. Javert had every chance to capture Valjean then, but it would’ve resulted in certain death for the boy he carried with him. He let them go. Both of them. And then all of a sudden, he was on the bridge, and it was as if someone had extinguished the stars and the world had gone black.

Abruptly, the memory cuts out, and a sudden sense of unprecedented panic seizes his throat, the likes of which he’d never felt before. His skin is alight with an unbearable itch he can’t scratch, and his previously calm (albeit shallow) breathing quickens and becomes more akin to that of a prey outrunning a predator, panting with abject terror and adrenaline coursing like liquid fire through his veins. This feeling of intense anxiety is alien to Javert. He has always been cool and in control, but that feeling is completely lost to him at this moment. He grasps at the covers in a desperate attempt to ground himself and get his thoughts under control, but to no avail. In his panicked state, he does not hear the muffled sound of footsteps approaching, nor the low, hushed voices speaking in a low tone outside the door.

When the door clicks open, Javert barely even registers the noise. His mind is far too preoccupied with the rush of hurried thoughts coursing through him like the fast-running rapids of the Seine itself. All at once, it’s as if he’s once again plunged into icy cold water, awake this time, struggling desperately against the currents, but all in vain as he sinks into the deep, endless murky depths. He’s drowning in his own fears, with no lifeboat in sight. His hands fly to his hair, frantically grasping and pulling at it, his slightly unkempt and uncut nails scratching his scalp as he does so.

The figure, unseen to the Inspector, who has entered the room, quickly sets aside the tray he was carrying and comes to the side of the distraught officer, unhesitatingly taking hold of his hand, perching on the edge of the bed, his other hand resting reassuringly on Javert’s shoulder, trying to calm him down. He brushes over the man’s hair, shielding him slightly from his own violent, agitated hands. He brings the panic-stricken Inspector closer to his chest, resting his head against his own shoulder, and rocking ever so slightly. He hushes him much the way a mother might a crying child, and after a few minutes Javert seems to calm - well, at least enough to stop hyperventilating.

He takes a deep breath, and looks up for the first time since the man entered the room, and immediately instinctively cries out. Even in his overwrought state, there’s no mistaking that face. That face he has known so long, granted, aged and wearing no small amount of grief and pain, but nonetheless unmistakable: the firm but concerned expression, the rough stubble around his thinly pressed pink lips, that strong jawline, the graying curls that cling to his furrowed brow...no, there was no mistaking Jean Valjean.

Javert feels the ex-convict’s hand against his face, first feeling his cheek, then moving to his forehead. When he speaks, the noise that comes from his mouth is so gentle he scarcely recognises the tone. Valjean had always had such a fierce, spirited tone, but something in him has changed this time. His voice is soft and almost concerned, like he is speaking with a child lost in a wood, or as if he were addressing a sick woman on her deathbed. It stirs a sense of unease in the Inspector.

“You’ve warmed up quite a bit, thank the Heavens. I had begun to believe you might never regain your normal temperature. How do you feel?”  
Javert is silent a minute before attempting to reply, but is unable to find his voice among the rush of emotion in his head. He isn’t really sure what he’d say in any event. He’s still just barely conscious of the happenings of the world around him, and the dull ache he experienced earlier has become more intense.  
“No, I think, actually…” Valjean continues, moving ever so slightly closer, “you best not strain yourself with addressing me right now, _Monsieur l'Inspecteur_. You need not worry, I do swear by God and the stars under His command that no harm will come to you under my care. Rest now, in peace. I shall stay with you awhile too, I think, if it does not concern you too much. You will be alright now. I promise.”

And for some strange, unknowable reason, Javert believes him. Perhaps it is the sudden wave of fatigue that has crashed over him following his earlier panic, or the shock of waking in what he can only presume to be the residence of the man he has so long pursued, but he finds himself lulled back beneath the veil of sleep once again before long, and slumbers restfully.


	3. In Which Valjean Saves a Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay in update. The holiday season has left me with little time or energy for writing, but better late than never.
> 
> Just as a brief note, this chapter and a few others may make reference to events only in the book as opposed to the musical. 
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone.

When he saw the Inspector on the bridge, Jean Valjean immediately knew something was off. The last time he had seen him, Valjean had still had an unconscious Marius Pontmercy slumped over his shoulder, and had just emerged from the sewer. Naturally, Javert had been there, lying in wait like a tiger does for its prey. Only this time, something was different. There had been something in Javert’s eyes that Valjean had never seen before: anxiety, indecision, doubt. It rendered him barely recognisable under the faint light of the moon. There languished within the Inspector a certain sense of moral anguish that ran contrary to what Valjean had always known of the earnest, authoritarian officer who never questioned orders or hesitated in matters of the law. Once Javert knew he had his man, he was as relentless as the bloodhound who stalks out the deer in the forest; his nose for justice was far too keen to be dulled by petty questions of morality, and yet...

  
  
Nevertheless, Valjean could not let himself become too distracted at that time. The boy he had rescued from the barricade was growing weaker by the minute, and much more exposure to the grime of the Parisian streets would surely induce life-threatening infection. He had already endured the filth of the sewers; any more would surely kill him. And so, when the Inspector had threatened his life, Valjean had still not hesitated. He walked away with the Pontmercy boy still on his back with an almost callous disregard in that moment for his own safety - all that mattered was that Cosette’s love was returned to her. Valjean knew he was old. He would not be around to look after his beloved Cosette forever, and the years of arduous labour in Toulon had surely shortened his life already. Cosette, his sweet flower, his only glimmer of hope among the sea of hardship and pain, deserved someone to look after her. She was a delicate soul, Valjean thought, and deserved the very best in life. He had done all he could to provide this for her, but now it was time to step aside and let someone else take over that wonderful duty. Marius, Valjean knew, despite his young naivete and lack of experience in the world, loved Cosette just as dearly as he did. He would look after her well. 

Once he had safely returned the boy to an infirmary, he paused a moment to sigh a breath of relief, only to find he still could not quite relax. Even as he had completed his duty and done all he could for his daughter’s beau, still a sense of unease gnawed at the edge of his mind. A feeling of dread washed over his being, like cold, tumultuous currents over a drowning man. Still, a concrete explanation of this feeling eluded him. The feeling, he was certain, was unrelated to Pontmercy’s condition - of course, he was anxious about the wellbeing of the boy, but the deep feeling of trepidation in his soul was something much darker, a much more unknown quantity. 

Perhaps, he thought to himself, he simply needed to clear his mind with a stroll. He had seen a lot these last few days, had seen far too many young lives cruelly snuffed out. It would put a strain on any person’s conscience, regardless of political affiliations. Valjean had not considered himself a revolutionary by any meaning of the word, but those boys at the barricade had no ill intent. They had died in pursuit of a better world, only for all their efforts and sacrifice to be in vain. He had seen their faces. He had seen the panic and fear on their faces as they witnessed their friends fall all around them, had heard their screams as they suffered various terrible fates. They were only boys after all, and what boy isn’t afraid to die? From what he had seen, he knew too well there would be no survivors among those he had left when he descended into the sewers. 

As he walked, Valjean had to wonder if those who had led the charge against the barricade felt any guilt for their part in the whole affair. There had to be some moral men among them, surely? Religion compels one to a strong sense of morality, so how can it be that such a person can kill without thought? Those revolutionaries had to have families, wives, friends. What would come of them now? Valjean made a mental note to himself to make rounds to visit the families of the bereaved and make donations where necessary. Perhaps such an act of altruism would calm his own guilt, somewhat. But that would be later - both he and they required time to process before such acts could occur. 

Whilst he thought of the families of those involved, and the conscience of man, his mind briefly turned for a moment, to the Inspector he had left near the bridge. Valjean had almost no doubt that if no other guardsman or officer felt guilt for the events of the uprising, Javert certainly felt _something._ He had left the policeman alone under the swelling grey clouds of the Paris night sky with a changed soul, he was sure of it. But Javert, so rigid and relentless in his beliefs, would surely struggle with such a revelation. What would he do now? Could he continue to serve the police now he had borne witness to the injustices it upheld? He was a just and righteous man by nature; to disturb his morality in such a way almost seemed dangerous to the Inspector’s very essence. 

By this time, Valjean had reached the riverside. As he traversed its length, he looked down into the murky, choppy water. Even in June, it had to be freezing cold. He wondered for a moment how many unfortunate souls had met their end in those gloomy depths, and then how many were deliberate. Sure, suicide was a sin, but a soul so tormented could not truly be blamed for their actions. In the distance, as he looked up again once more, the thought still resonating in his mind, he saw a tiny figure standing by the ledge of the bridge. They were but an ant dwarfed by the magnitude of the night’s dark, but still, something in Valjean’s soul knew exactly who he was looking at, and that feeling of dread began churning within him again, making him feel nauseous. He wouldn’t, would he…?

He wasn't left to wonder much longer. 

As he watches the Inspector fall from the ledge, something primal awakens within him and it’s all he can do to repress a loud cry. Immediately, surging with adrenaline, he bursts forward with inhuman speed and strength, reaching the closer bank of the river in less than a minute, and quickly stripping himself of his clothing, retaining only his drawers as he dove headfirst and without hesitation into the water.

It’s the biting cold that hits his body first, surging through him like a shockwave. It’s not the first time he’s fallen into cold water, but this is something different. The first time, when he faked his death in the prisoner’s camp, it had been a shock, but his will to escape had carried him through. This was something else entirely. Tiny icicles pierced every inch of his exposed skin like needles. It took everything in him not to instantly seize up, but he bit back his instincts furiously as he forced his arms, stinging viciously with the cold, to make circular motions. In the dark, it was hard to spot the Inspector, and it felt like forever before Valjean spotted a dark humanoid shape in the water. He thrashed his way through the tumultuous currents, using all his strength to pull the shape towards him and against his body. Then, kicking onto his back, he attempted to make his way towards the shallowest edge of the river bank. 

It took multiple heaves for Valjean to finally pull himself and the Inspector out of the river. When they were both finally free of the deathly grasp of the Seine, the ex-convict allowed himself a moment of respite, still clutching the policeman’s cold body to his person. He had no idea of the Inspector’s state at this point, or if he even still lived. He had seen the man fall, and hit his back at a particularly brutal angle on the edge of a weir. If nothing else, his back was at least likely broken. But that was the least of his troubles at that moment in time. He did not know if the man he currently held in his arms would ever wake up, let alone move with the dexterity he had prior his fall. 

Still breathing rapidly, he fumbled for the Inspector’s pulse, but felt nothing. Could it be that his fingers were too numb to feel, or was the man already gone? He had no idea. Valjean had another idea: he placed his finger just below the other man’s nose, and put his head to his chest, listening frantically for any sign of breath. Nothing. Now he allowed himself to panic; there had to be some way to revive him! He had seen him alive less than five minutes ago on the bridge... 

Bringing Javert level with his chest, he massaged the man’s back, patting him a few times before laying him out flat on his back. He vaguely recalled hearing about some technique that a mother in Montreuil-sur-Mer had told him about during his days as Monsieur Madeleine that could be used to revive recently drowned children. Desperately trying to recall as he moved, and knowing he had no time to pause for recollection, he lightly pressed the heel of his hand into the Inspector’s chest, compressing his chest rhythmically, periodically stopping to lean down and listen to his chest. Not feeling much response, Valjean instead tilted the man’s chin up, pinched his nose lightly and pressed his mouth over Javert’s. Ordinarily, the gesture might’ve felt strange, wrong, even perverted, but in circumstances such as these he gave the notion no thought. His only thought is of _saving_ the man who has hounded him his entire life. He breathed into the Inspector’s mouth twice before returning to his chest compressions, repeating the cycle at least ten times, maybe more, his hope fading with each repetition. 

After another cycle, Valjean sat back, resigned. There was nothing more he could do. Realizing that the man’s clothes were probably freezing cold clinging to his wet skin, he gently removed his uniform, pulling his own cast-aside coat around him, and hugged him close, feeling hopeless tears prick the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure why the whole thing affected him so deeply. He had never been especially close to Javert. In fact, he was fairly sure the man hated him. But all the same, he hadn’t deserved such an end. Ultimately, he was an honest man in vigorous pursuit of his duty. What wrong had he truly done? After all, Javert was many things, but cruel was not one of them. Some took his tenacity and relentless loyalty to the law as such, but Valjean knew the man better. His desire for a just world had ironically blinded him to the injustice that surrounded him every day, but that was not his fault. Valjean would forgive him again, if he had to. 

Wanting to save the Inspector the indignity of his body being left unclothed and soaked on the street, he gently lifted the man in his arms, carrying him the way a husband might have carried his newly-wedded wife. It’s at this point he became aware of the chill spreading throughout his own body. He’d surely suffer himself if he did not get inside soon, too. He quickly collected both of their clothes, and made his way quickly back towards his apartment. 

It didn’t take him long to get back, but to Valjean, it was hours before he felt the relief of indoor warmth. He retired quickly to his room, lighting the fireplace and placing the limp Inspector down on his bed. It wasn’t long before he too had crawled into the same bed, having found himself insurmountably tired upon even the sight of his bedroom. He didn't even have time to change into his nightclothes before he crashed underneath the covers, drawing Javert’s body against his own in hope of, by some miracle, sharing some body heat between the two of them.

However, it was not until he felt the ever so slight flutter of the other man’s pulse beneath his fingers that Valjean truly felt at rest, finding himself quickly consumed by a much needed wave of sleep not long afterwards. 


	4. In Which Javert Reflects Upon Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note I don't think I've mentioned before: I usually like to write Javert as Black because I believe it adds to the story. 
> 
> Any negative attitudes expressed towards those of a BAME background in this writing are not opinions held by myself, but simply an expression of attitudes that may have been held at the time. 
> 
> Furthermore, there's no real substantial plot points in this chapter - it serves simply to further develop characters and relationships between characters.
> 
> That's all for now. Enjoy.

When he awakes once more, Javert is alone again. He rubs the sleep that has collected in the corner of his eyes from his vision and attempts to lift himself into a sitting position. His body feels heavy, as if someone had tied weighted disks to his lower half. His ribs and back still throb with an aching pain, but it is nothing unbearable, as things stand. He leans back a minute, trying to collect his thoughts and willpower before once again trying to hoist himself up. He manages to prop himself about halfway up on his pillows before his strength gives out. Evidently his fall has impacted his stamina and muscle. Huffing loudly, he resignedly rests his head against the headboard of the bed. It isn’t a comfortable position, but at least he’s not laid there like a useless lump of a human being anymore. 

_ This is most inconvenient,  _ he thinks to himself,  _ how am I to do my duty if I cannot lift myself up? _

But would he even be able to go back to his job, now? Javert had never been a prideful man - in fact, he believed most pride to be foolish and sinful - but the one thing he had harboured any degree of pride in was his profession. He had done it. He, Javert, had managed to beat the odds, beat the circumstances of his upbringing, and break the cycle of crime that he seemed doomed to repeat had he not taken up his post. His parents were criminals, too. His mother was a fortune teller, and his father from the galleys. In that he felt naught but shame. Their influence ( _ and appearance _ , he thinks bitterly to himself) had made Javert’s journey through the ranks a long and arduous one. His superiors in Toulon, back in his days as a prison guard, had not taken kindly to having a dark-skinned man among their ranks (Javert’s own mother had been a dark-skinned Romani, and his father originally a French African man) and as such had treated him less than favourably. It had taken him decades, then, instead of the comparably shorter time of his lighter-skinned peers, to be promoted all the way to Inspector. But all the same, he had made it. Could he really abandon all that hardship, all that tireless work now? Would they even take him back, after the biting comments he had made in the note he had left at the station?   
  
This constant swirling in his head has once again rendered the Inspector lost in thought. He is so lost, in fact, that yet again he does not hear the sound of another person entering the room until they are directly within his eyesight. It’s a different person this time, a girl. She’s blonde and petite, with a slim frame and a kind but determined expression that reminded him eerily of the expression Valjean had worn earlier. Where was he, anyway? He had said that he intended to stay with Javert a while, and yet he is nowhere to be seen. Not that he cares, Javert reminds himself firmly, he could come and go as he pleased. He had let him go; it is no longer his duty to apprehend the man.    
  
The blonde girl approaches closer, so that Javert can see her face more clearly. He has seen the girl before, definitely. It takes him a moment to place her face, but eventually he ascertains that the young woman standing before him is Cosette, Jean Valjean's adopted daughter. She seems to be peering intently at the Inspector a while, not speaking a word. Is she afraid of him, Javert wonders? It takes him a minute to realise that it is likely she is not staring at Javert himself, but at his...state. He realises for the first time now his state of undress - he has only a coat around his shoulders - and his normally tightly pulled back hair has sprung back into its natural afro-like position. Quickly embarrassed by his state, Javert pulls the covers further up to his chest, and looks around for a hair tie. Cosette simply giggles, clearly somewhat amused by the frantic fumbling of the Inspector.   
  
“Papa still has your hair tie, I believe,” she says, with a knowing smile, “he took all your clothes. He said that it wasn’t good for you to wear wet clothes when you were already so cold.”

Javert blinks a minute, before sighing deeply. Of course the old fool would take his uniform and leave him only a coat -  _ Valjean’s coat,  _ he realises now _ \-  _ and then send in a young woman to attend to him. Instinctively, he draws the coat closer around him. He wants to cover as much of his bare form as he can. He should respond, he knows, but his voice still feels hoarse and raspy. He’s unsure he could produce any sound even if he tried. However, seeing the girl’s expectant, bright face, he feels an obligation to acknowledge her in some way. 

“...I see.” Javert's voice comes out quiet, barely a whisper. He’s ashamed by the hesitance and authority his voice lacks when he speaks, but Cosette looks happy just to have received a response. He supposes Valjean likely forewarned his daughter of his temperament. He brings his hand up to his forehead, massaging his temples. What is he supposed to do now? Valjean still has his clothes, and his own strength continues to fail him. In addition, his body continues to grow weak from its lack of sustenance, as it comes to his attention now that he had not eaten since before he jumped. It would likely be impossible to feed him whilst he was unconscious, and Javert has no idea how long this was. It could have been days since he has last eaten.    
  
As if sensing this, Cosette peers at him curiously. “Is something the matter, Monsieur? You look as if you have something on your mind.” 

Javert grumbles quietly, his voice once again scarcely a croak. “How long was I...out?”

Her face takes a more neutral expression, as if she’s trying to work something out in her head. It’s when she begins counting on her fingers that Javert realises he has likely been unconscious longer than he had originally thought. 

“About three and a half days,” she tells him, “Papa was worried you might never wake up. He’s been fussing over you non-stop, but he won’t tell me anything about you…”

Javert once again grumbles to himself. Of course Valjean’s daughter was inquisitive. It is only naturally when her father is such a shady figure, who Javert could only imagine had done all he could to prevent her from learning his true identity. How he managed this he had no idea; Valjean had likely assumed multiple aliases over the years, and Cosette had been in his company now for almost a decade. It cannot have been easy to get a child to comply with such secrecy, and she must have had questions. Javert knows too well a child deprived of answers all their life will naturally become a very inquisitive person. His own parents had told him little of the world, save that some people were poor, and others were rich. That’s just the way things were - some people were just better than others, and they were not one of those people. Javert should accept this, and not seek to better his station. Naturally, he had ignored this, but did not find that his parents were entirely clueless. Now he saw the world for what it is, he realises all the more that they were right, but not in the way that they had expected to be. Some people are born into wealth, and never have to lift a finger. Others are born disadvantaged and poor, and therefore are drawn into crime for survival. The former are the better, because they never have the obligation to be the worse.

“I’m hungry,” the dishevelled Inspector replies, “I have eaten nothing for a long time. I have not been capable of it.”

“Ah, of course! Papa did bring in some soup for you earlier, but you must’ve both fallen asleep before you had a chance to eat it…”

_ So he did stay after all,  _ Javert thinks,  _ he must have woken before me. _

He turns back to Cosette. “Evidently. I would have some water too, if you please. I find my throat quite hoarse.”

Cosette says nothing more, simply nods quickly and scurries out of the room like a skittish kitten, closing the door behind her.    
  
Javert looks up to the ceiling. It was likely once a pleasant cream colour, but the colour has faded in places like an uneven patchwork. He runs his hands through his hair almost anxiously, pulling at the coiled strands. His hair isn’t meant to be out of its tie. Out of tie was out of uniform, his superiors had made that much clear. Even when he slept he preferred to cover it. Not that it matters now, he supposes. It’s unlikely he would be able to work again even if the police agreed to take him back. It seems unlikely to him, nevertheless, that they would want him to resume his employment. He had spoken out of turn and criticised the practice of those above him by calling for the better treatment of prisoners. Still, he doesn’t regret it. True, the decision might have been spur of the moment and motivated by no small amount of emotion, but what he wrote he meant sincerely. If there are other men out there, men like Jean Valjean, then surely such harsh punishment is undue. It still baffles him, of course, the contradiction between Valjean’s criminal status and the moral decision-making of a good man, but who is he to question that? Clearly it is God who has led him to this revelation. Clearly it is Him who has assured that his path crossed again and again with this man, and has shown him the truth of the world. Is Valjean, then, some sort of saint? The idea makes his head hurt, so he decides to put it out of his mind.

His peace of mind is short-lived, as it isn’t long before he is disturbed again. This time, however, his caller knocks. Javert makes a vague noise of acknowledgement before Valjean walks in, approaching Javert with a tray.    
“Good evening, Inspector. Did you sleep well?” he asks, regarding him in a manner so casual it is as if they had been close friends their whole life. Javert simply grunts in response. 

“Still not feeling too talkative then, I presume?” he smiles slyly, “Ah, but my Cosette told me that you spoke to her. Is it just me that you are not willing to speak to, then?”

Javert looks up at him, conjuring as cold an expression as he can to regard the old convict. Something in his mind will simply not allow him to act in a familiar manner. It’s true, he had known Valjean years, but they had never been anything resembling friends. Even as Monsieur Madeleine, Javert had always harboured a certain distrust towards the man. It is a queer thing now for him to lay in the other man’s bed, whilst he attends his need. 

Valjean sits beside the bed, sinking into a plush-looking chair, and gently resting the tray he had brought on Javert’s lap. Javert does not eat immediately, but the temptation is strong. The soup that Valjean has brought him smells good, and he suspects will taste even better. Then again, he thinks to himself, wouldn’t anything after three days of starvation? His mind once again turns back to old encounters, this time to the galleys. Valjean had claimed he stole the bread that earned him his stay in Toulon to feed his sister’s starving children. Were they as hungry then as he is now? It’s a conflicting thought, and Javert is almost put off from his food.  _ Almost. _ _   
_ _   
_ “It isn’t poisoned, you know.” Valjean chides gently, “If I wanted to harm you, Inspector, then why would I have spared your life at the barricade? Why would I have pulled you from the Seine? ” 

At the mention of the Seine, Javert flinches. It takes all his willpower not to lose himself again as he did the last time he thought about his fall, and those endless black depths. It feels, now, like that is his constant state of being: trying desperately to keep his head above the deep unknown waters, knowing if he falters or panics that he will inevitably sink again. Had he even been rescued at all? 

Seeing the anguished look on his face, Valjean relents a little, bringing his chair closer still to the bed and laying a hand on his shoulder (which he cannot help but notice Javert flinches away from) before speaking again.    
“You can speak to me, you know, if there is something on your mind. I truly don’t wish you any harm. In fact, quite the opposite: I rather wish to help you recover, but such a feat will be difficult if you refuse to open up to me.”

Javert closes his eyes, speaking quietly but curtly. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Valjean shakes his head, much the way a mother might disapprovingly shake her head at a mischievous child. “Monsieu-” he appears to catch himself mid-word. “Javert.”

The use of his name catches the Inspector’s attention, and Valjean knows it. It is his intention, after all, to have the man’s eyes trained on him keenly as he speaks. 

“Javert, please. I know your mind must be in a dark and troubled place right now, but you must know that you are not alone. I intend to help you. Whether you like or not, I regret to inform you.”

He huffs. “You do not change, Valjean. You are still a stubborn spirit.”

“Then we have something in common, don’t we?” Valjean chuckles lowly, before his voice once again takes on a more serious tone. “Come now. We are adult men, are we not? Let us act like it. It will do us no good to quarrel like petulant children.”

“ _ You _ are a petulant child.  _ I  _ am an officer of the law.” 

“Who ignores my request to be civil and continues to behave immaturely. Honestly Inspector, do have some dignity.”

“That is a difficult thing to do, when you have left me undressed and helpless in your bed.”

It is Valjean who sighs now, dropping his head into his hands. It’s true, he knew Javert would be difficult, but clearly the trauma of everything that has happened to him has made him even more unruly and uncooperative. He runs a hand through his own curls, and glances at the bedraggled-looking man laid in his bed, and he feels a strange wave of sympathy and compassion for the old policeman. His heart had been set in stone, and now his worldview has been ruthlessly shattered by none other than the man he had pursued his whole life. It is only natural that he is defensive and closed-minded right now. Trust is not formed overnight, Valjean reminds himself, remembering how tentative and nervous Cosette had been when he first took her into his company. He resolves that he must be more patient with Javert; perhaps in time he will open up to him. Besides, it isn’t as if he could go anywhere - he does not know the full extent of his injuries, but upon the light examination he has made, he knows the Inspector’s spine is likely at least fractured, possibly worse. It would not hurt him to treat the man with dignity and care.   
  
“Alright, I understand. I acknowledge that it must be difficult to talk about these things so soon after they have happened. I apologise. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Javert simply rolls his eyes in response, still looking down mournfully at his food. It seems something is holding him back. It takes Valjean a moment to realise. 

“You may pray if you wish, Inspector. I know it brings you solace to do so before you eat. In fact,” he continues, drawing a worn rosary from his pocket, “I found this in your coat pocket. It seems almost a miracle, does it not, that it is not lost or destroyed?” 

The Inspector is silent, but takes his rosary, and begins silently praying over the meal. Valjean, having always felt prayer is a private thing, pulls himself to his feet, leaving the man to pray and eat. There is no need to push him now. He likely still needs time to rest, after all. He may have slept for a long time, but his body is greatly injured and his mind must still be fatigued. A suicide attempt is no light matter, and to coax Javert into speaking of the matter when he clearly is not ready would likely only hurt him more. Valjean knows he will speak in his own time; there is no rush.    
  
He begins to push the door open, but pauses when he hears Javert’s voice again.    
“Valjean,” he calls, a command for attention, not a request. “Thank you.”

Valjean simply smiles slightly, nods his head in acknowledgement, and leaves. 


	5. In Which Old Nemeses Reconcile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so maybe I'm bad at updating but life has been hectic. Also about halfway through planning this chapter I had my leg propped up on my cane, slipped and nearly fell on my ass, so I hope it's worth it.  
> (God, I'm so professional)

It has been a further week, now, then, in which the old nemeses have known each other's persistent company. It has been uneventful, for the most part. Valjean did eventually endeavour to purchase new bedclothes for Javert, after ascertaining to himself that the old police officer’s uniform was unfit for bed rest. The long nightshirt he purchases is oversized, and reveals more of the collarbone than polite company would likely deem decent, but Javert supposes it is an improvement on simply draping Valjean’s coat around his shoulders.   
  
For the first few days, Valjean attempts to talk to him, but quickly finds his attempts unfruitful. It is clear to him that Javert is still far from trusting him completely, and as such is unwilling to make any conversation beyond what he finds necessary to facilitate his survival in the house (“Are you hungry?” “No.” “I’ll make you something to eat just in case.”). After about three days, Valjean concludes that there is likely no point in further pressing the man into any unwarranted communication, and settles with simple pleasantries when he brings Javert food and water. After this, he leaves Javert to pray over his meal and eat, and the two coexist relatively peacefully.   
  
These events remain unchanged, until one day, as Valjean brings Javert his regular evening meal and goes to leave, he halts, hearing Javert’s voice and startling a little.   
“You always leave me to pray. I am beginning to ponder whether you ever do so yourself.”

Valjean looks to him with a puzzled expression; well it’s certainly true enough, he cannot deny, he does not pray as often as a devout Christian man should these days, he did not expect Javert of all people to express spiritual concern for him.

“I do pray, Javert. But, ah...I do confess, I have been somewhat lapse in the endeavour, of recent.”   
  
Javert turns to the old convict with a look under which Valjean cannot help but shudder. It is painfully similar to that old disapproving glare he was far too used to in the Toulon galleys. 

“You cannot profess to be a man of God, 246- Valjean, if you do not strive to maintain a close relationship with Him.”

Valjean is somewhat taken aback by this comment, once again confused by Javert’s sudden worry over his soul. Alas, this is the most engagement he has ever received from the man; it would be foolish of him to disregard his emotion.   
“Perhaps you are right, Inspector. Maybe I should strive to be more pious in my day-to-day affairs, hm?”

Javert once again regards Valjean, before grumbling. The old fool did not seem to understand his meaning at all. _This is idiotic,_ he thinks to himself as he massages his temples with his fingers, _why should I even attempt to extend the olive branch to such a man?_

“You look troubled, Javert. Is something on your mind?” he enquires, with something more akin to fear rather than concern in his voice. 

Javert sighs deeply, before locking eyes with the ex-convict. Clearly he was not getting the message. 

“You, fool. I was...expressing an invitation.” he says tentatively, almost cautious.   
  
It takes Valjean a moment to find the meaning of his words. An invitation. The man who had pursued him all these years had just asked him to join in his prayer. Javert, a creature of solitude, no doubt about it, is finally opening up. Somewhat. It takes everything within him not to feel a little prideful at the fact. 

“Of course, Javert. I accept.”

Javert once again simply grumbles in response, lifting his rosary from his bedside and clutching the beads between his fingers as if he feared they might disappear if he did not hold tight enough. Valjean, unable to help but feeling like he is approaching a wounded and bashful stag in the night, kneels quietly next to the bed, bowing his head in silent prayer. In doing so, he thanks God not only for His bounty and His favour, but also for His blessing in allowing this moment to happen. For allowing Javert to open his heart enough to allow the man who once dominated him as a ruthless prison guard to pray alongside the prisoner. 

Javert is the one who lifts his head first, momentarily observing Valjean in prayer. He had expected the man to accept out of politeness, even out of hope for further engagement with him (Javert, after all, had been far from blind from the man’s attempts to get closer to him) but he had not expected to see him in lost in thought and prayer the way he is now. After all, how truly devout could a man who so shamelessly flouted God’s commandments in his crimes really be? All the same, it is clear to Javert in this moment that what he is witnessing is not performative piety; it is a troubled man praying for both of their souls. The thought troubles Javert so much that when Valjean once again speaks, he is almost startled. 

“You know, Inspector...I do believe this is the closest we’ve been. It means a lot to me that you would invite me to engage in such a...private act.”

This once again makes Javert clam up. This was so foolish. What had he expected, really? Of course Valjean was going to take this as an opportunity to probe at him further. He had been quite persistent in his attempts so far. Even when he was not directly speaking to him, he would find excuses to stay in the room longer than necessary. Something was always lost, or the curtains weren’t drawn quite right, or drawers of the dresser were not aligned properly. Javert is a detailed oriented man. He notices these things, of course, but it is clear to him when someone is looking for an excuse to remain in another’s company. He had seen the way hopeful young women unconvincingly bump into undeniably handsome and wealthy men in the street, dropping a handkerchief or noticing some supposed obscure past connection between the two of them. 

Valjean, naturally, has noticed Javert’s sudden quiet. Why did he say that? It’s taken him this long to elicit any kind of voluntary interaction between the two of them, and now he’s boasting over their closeness? It vaguely occurs to Valjean that perhaps he is not as charismatic as Monsieur Madeleine was, nor as subtle. He continues to spiral among this train of thought until he is interrupted.   
“What I mean to say,” Javert sighs, clearly sensing Valjean’s discomfort in silence, “is that you clearly intend to continue engaging me even if I give you nothing in return. So...it seems pointless to avoid such exchanges with you. It is not as if I am in any position to leave any time soon.”

Valjean looks up a little, attempting to study the other man’s face. His deep, intelligent brown eyes betray nothing. He gives up quickly. Clearly head-on is the only way to approach this.   
“Javert...will you tell me nothing more? You have been here over a week now, and still you say nothing of how you feel of this arrangement, or of your condition, never mind how you came to be in it.”

Javert does not falter in his response. “What is there to say? There is no use in denying my intent; it occurs to me now that you must have witnessed my fall to have rescued me in time to...preserve my life. So then, I put to you this: I tried to kill myself. I failed. There is nothing else to be said of the situation.”

The way the old Inspector speaks holds a note of finality, but apparently in this moment that is lost on Jean Valjean. He is uncomfortable on a level that he cannot quite express. There has to be more than this, surely. He has to feel something about the whole affair. One cannot feign neutrality on such matters! He runs a hand through his somewhat messy curls, lightly tugging as he desperately searches for something to say. Something to say! Anything!

He eventually settles on this. “I hope one day you will talk to me. Javert. I-” he allows his face briefly to fall into his hands, before meeting those intense russet eyes again. “I hope that one day you trust me enough to share how you truly feel with me.”

Javert’s face remains stone. “I feel nothing of it now.”

It takes everything in Valjean not to groan in frustration. Javert is unflinching and clearly unmoved by his plea for transparency. It wouldn’t hurt to persist a little more, surely…

“You must feel something. What you went through was traumatic! One does not come out of such things emotionally unscathed!”

No sign of change. “Clearly I am not an ordinary man then. I have nothing to say on the matter, even less that I would divulge to the likes of you.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“Refuse and deny all you wish. You were always adept at making untruths seem their opposite, _Monsieur Madeleine.”_

“You’re deflecting.”

“I am not. You are projecting what _you_ want me to feel.”

“You must have felt something to throw yourself off a bridge, Javert!” 

Javert freezes up at those last words, practically spat from the other man with an undeniable degree of frustration and spite. That dreaded feeling from a week ago once begins to claw at his throat, like a cat mercilessly batting about a captured rodent. All at once, everything is undone and he’s back on the bridge, underneath the cold and black stars, as if the universe had extinguished them solely for the purposes of swallowing him up into the darkness. Why resist? If he’s undone, he’s undone at his own hands. Darkness. He’s in the Seine again. There’s a searing pain in back, and the filthy dark water is consuming him. Its greedy hands seize his body, limp and helpless, dragging him beneath the surface, a siren luring her pray to his doom. Then there’s nothing. He’s not there. He’s not alive. He’s not dead. He’s nothing. There’s nothing but nothing. 

Valjean doesn’t even have to wait for Javert’s reaction to know that he screwed up. Badly. He had sworn to himself to be patient with Javert, to show him the same kindness and tolerance he had shown Cosette when he first adopted her, but he can only seem to do wrong by the old Inspector. Perhaps they simply weren’t meant to be friends. Or acquaintances. Or anything but enemies. All they can seem to do is hurt one another.   
  
_No,_ Valjean tells himself, _this isn’t him. You hurt him. This is on you._ _  
_ _  
_ In his spiralling, Valjean is ignorant to his surroundings. He does not notice Javert thrashing about frantically in an attempt to escape the covers/currents that bind him, nor does he notice the man slowly lose his grip and start to fall all over again. It isn’t until he hears a resounding thud on the floor beside the bed that he looks up, finally snapped out of his haze. He looks up, but sees no Javert. In seconds, he’s on the other side of the bed, knelt beside the fallen police officer. He’s hurt. Again. _Damn it._

Valjean pulls Javert against him before gently leaning him against the side of the bed frame, inspecting him for injury. There’s blood on his forehead, accompanied by a nasty gash. He must’ve hit his head when he fell from the bed, Valjean quickly realises. Seeing that Javert is still out of it, he gets to his feet before ever-so-gently lifting Javert back into place in bed, this time leaving him on top of the covers as not to further induce panic with restrictions. He attempts a few times to catch his attention, but cannot. Sensing that Javert will likely need time to recover from such shock, he murmurs a few words of reassurance and explanation before he quickly leaves the room in search of bandages and a cloth to clean the wound. 

It takes but two minutes for Valjean to return with dressing, but to Javert, it is an eternity. Nevertheless, the moments of silence give him a minute to pull himself back together. A little, at least. Although he cannot help but feel like his soundness and clarity of mind is more akin to a door loose on its hinges, or a shirt frayed and held together by only a few strong threads. Most of all, he is frustrated by himself. How could he let himself lose control like that again? What has become of him? He used to be so strong-willed, so calm, and now the tranquil lake within his mind has become a choppy overflowed river. But, of course, he recognises, perhaps it is not wise to think of rivers right now. They clearly trigger some kind of strange, hidden panic within him that he reviles with every fiber of his being.

When he returns, Valjean is meek and overtly gentle. It irritates Javert greatly to be treated as if he’s a delicate child, but what is there to do? If he protests, Valjean will simply take it as a sign that he is still hysterical, subsequently resulting in even more of the behaviour. No, better to take this for now, and tolerate the patronising manner until he is convinced once again that he does not need to treat Javert so gently. 

Soundlessly, Valjean approaches and dabs Javert’s forehead with a wet cloth. Javert himself had hardly noticed the injury, but now he notices, it stings, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from wincing as the other man attends him. Once he is done, he stares back up at Valjean with as much clarity and focus as he can muster, attempting to make evident his change of state. Valjean, apparently, does not get the memo as he pulls Javert up against his chest once again, hushing him much the way he had the first time. As much he hates to admit it, Valjean’s being is warm, and the way his hands delicately brush through his coiled hair is pleasant. He knows how to be gentle when he wants to be, Javert supposes.   
  
As Valjean reassures Javert, his mind is fixed elsewhere. As focused as he is on trying to calm the man, he cannot help but think about the way Javert had responded (or rather, not responded) when he had lifted him from the ground just a few minutes ago. His upper body seemed to writhe and move with a vivacity that suggests to Valjean that there is likely little cause for concern, but his lower half was all but unresponsive. As he wrapped his arms around Javert, his legs had hung limply and heavily, like some sort of ragdoll. He had figured, of course, that something like this may occur, but at this rate, it didn’t seem like Javert could move his legs at all. But, of course, he should not mention this right now. If he were to get frantic and panicked again, Valjean is not sure he would know how to calm him down. 

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take Javert long to catch the deep troubled look in the old con’s eyes. 

“There’s something on your mind.” he says pointedly, a statement, not a question. 

_Damn,_ Valjean thinks to himself, _I_ _should have figured Javert is too quick-witted to be fooled by this facade of peace._ _  
_ “Ah...it’s nothing you need to be worried about, Inspector. I assure you.” 

“You must think me quite stupid, Valjean. I find it quite the insult that you think I would believe that.”

“No, it’s not that-”

“Then tell me. I’m not as breakable and unstable as you believe me to be.”

Valjean sighs heavily. There’s no point hiding anything from Javert. He’s simply too sharp to be fooled by such trickery. He hadn’t gotten as far as he had managed without a significant amount of skill and tenacity; his senses were that of a bloodhound, Valjean knew only too well. 

“I...well, it’s just that…” he begins, attempting to be delicate.

“I do not have the time nor the patience for your deliberation, man. Say what you mean to say or leave me be.” his voice is harsh and abrupt, patience lacking completely. 

Valjean shakes his head. “As you wish, Javert. It is just that I could not help but notice the lack of responsivity in your lower half when I picked you up earlier. I was merely concerned. About, well...the function of your lower half, shall we say?”

“Is that all?” he asks impatiently, “I had noticed that fact awhile ago. It is to be expected with an injury such as the one I have attained. It is not as if there is much to be done.”

Valjean pauses a minute, his mind once again troubled. How is he taking this all so calmly? Javert is not a fool, not by any stretch of the imagination; he clearly understands the long-term implications of his injury, and yet…

“You seem remarkably calm about this. Does it not concern you at all? Are you not at least...upset, in any capacity? Surely you must know these sorts of things are hard to remedy.”

Javert does not rile. “I am well aware. I do not need you to patronise me. I see no reason to become unreasonable. It is definitely an inconvenience, I cannot deny that, but as I have already said, there is little that can be done. As such, there is no sense in getting... _emotional,_ about it.” 

As he speaks, Valjean cannot help but notice that he says the words ‘emotional’ with a degree of malice, as if he had learned to resent any notion of feelings. Alas, it’s hardly as if he could blame the man. He has likely had to endure and witness much horror in his life, and as such is probably a lot more desensitised than the average person. 

“Javert, _please,”_ he pleads, with more emotion than he ever expected to display before the old policeman, “I won’t judge you, for whatever you may say. I just need to know that you feel _something_. It can’t be healthy to keep your feelings concealed this way.”

Javert looks to Valjean, this time his gaze perhaps a touch softer than before. Sure, he might not fully trust the man, but this is the most concern anyone had ever shown him. But all the same, what is he to say? He is telling the truth, for the moment, at least. He has felt remarkably numb since his fall, save for in those moments of panic. There is no other truth to tell. 

“Valjean. If I must be truly candid with you, then so be it. The truth is this: I feel nothing of the affair because there is nothing left to feel. Whether I died or not, my life was over the moment I left that note and leapt from that bridge. My purpose is complete. There is no more meaning left in my life. I have come full circle. I was born into a life of crime, and now I find myself alone and disgraced. It seems...appropriate, if nothing else.” Javert’s words carry the gravity of a man speaking from experience, and he meets his old enemy’s eyes steady and unfaltering as he speaks. It is the first time that night that Valjean has believed what he said, and yet it is not satisfaction on his face. It is pain and pity, concern and hurt. 

His voice is still soft when he speaks again. “Your life is not meaningless, Javert, and you are certainly not alone. I am here, am I not? I already told you that I intend to look after you as long as necessary.”

“You misunderstand me. My purpose is finished _because_ I am here. I can never go back to the way things were before, not now. Being an officer of the law was the cornerstone of my identity. They will never take me back now, and I cannot blame them. In truth, it would have been better had you left me to drown. Perhaps then my message might have at least resonated more.”

“How can you say that? The Inspector I knew was so tenacious, so relentless! He would never give up this way.”

“Is that not precisely the point, _Jean?_ ” his words imply familiarity, but his tone implies something else. “The person you knew back then was ‘Inspector Javert’. Now I am simply Javert. I am derailed. There is nothing left of what I knew or who I am. Not even I know who I am any longer, Valjean. And quite frankly, if you were that concerned about preserving the man you knew, then maybe you should not have rescued me from the Seine in the first place. It was reckless of you to have risked your life that way, even more so for a man who is already damned.”

This stings, and Javert knows it from the look of pain on Valjean’s face as he speaks. 

“I knew the risks, Inspe- Javert.” Javert flinches off to the side, and Valjean chides himself mentally to watch his language more, “I would do it again, however, given the need. I could not rest soundly, nor could I live knowing I had let an innocent man die.”

“Innocent? That’s an interesting choice of words from you, Jean Valjean.”

“I stand by it. I meant what I said, when I freed you at the barricade. You did your duty, nothing more. For that, I cannot hold you blameworthy. It is not your fault that life dealt you those cards.”

“Cards? Speak not to me of fate, I do not care for it. I _chose_ to work as a prison guard, and subsequently _chose_ to become an Inspector.”

“Be that as it may, Javert,” Valjean retorts, “It was not much of a choice to make, was it?”

Javert pauses a minute, raising an eyebrow as if daring him to continue.

“And do tell me, Valjean. Why, pray tell, do you think that?”

“Is it not obvious?” he replies, “You told me yourself. ‘I was born inside a jail’ tells me all I need know. Your ‘choice’ was to continue such a life or to become the guardian of the law instead. Both are the life of the outcast. Don’t misunderstand me of course, I commend you for your duty. In fact, I admire your genuine dedication to upholding justice, no matter the cost. But all the same, surely you of all people must see that the system is unfair. The cards were as stacked against you as they were against me, likely more.”

Javert looks amused than angered, much to Valjean’s surprise, when he next speaks.

“Hm? Why is that?”

“Because of who you are, Javert. I am not blind. I have seen the way officers and authority figures of all forms have treated your kind. I can only imagine how they must have treated a man like that in their own ranks.”

“If you wish to address my complexion, Valjean, then do so. It will do neither of us any good to euphemise it. Say what you mean, rather than what you think is appropriate to say.”

“Fine. I can only imagine how poorly they must have treated a dark-skinned man amongst their own. As much as I applaud your commitment, it should not have been necessary. I have seen men rise through the ranks far faster than you for far less.”

Javert grumbles at this comment. It’s true, he could not deny that many an officer had given him a hard time over his appearance, but it is a surprise that Valjean is aware of such a fact. Too often the people around him are blind to these things. 

“I cannot claim you are wrong in that respect, I will grant you that. But...I would have to disagree with the latter half of your statement. It is not that I was too dedicated. It is that others were not dedicated enough. Nor was I, in my own way, to what was truly important. You call me a man of justice, but you must clearly see the flaw in that: I had overlooked the wider picture for the details my entire life. I chased men for stealing food for their families in the name of justice, all whilst ignoring the wider injustice of the society that obligates them to do so.”

“Well...I do suppose if nothing else, the fact that you realise that now tells me that you are still fundamentally a good man. And for what is worth, Javert, I consider you no less than I, or any other man.”

Javert grumbles under his breath. “Although I cannot claim to be thrilled about being equal to a criminal…”

“That is not what I meant. I merely meant to say that I do not feel that your skin makes you inferior to myself in any way. To be perfectly transparent, I cannot imagine you any other way. It is a strange thought. I acknowledge it certainly must have brought its fair share of difficulty and adversity, but it is an intrinsic part of you. I think you should embrace it, and hold yourself proud that you overcame the hurdles you did.”

Javert huffs, knowing that he cannot truly refute his point; it’s true, he had held a lot of pride in his position, especially knowing how hard he had to work to reach it. There is a silence a moment, then, before Valjean once again gently lays a hand on his shoulder again, noticing that, for the first time that evening, Javert did not flinch away from him. He is lost for words a minute, trying to collect his thoughts. 

“I apologise, Javert. I had not meant to come off so intense. I had promised myself I would be more patient and understanding to your troubles, and yet on several occasions I have pressed you beyond what you consider comfortable.”

Javert simply shrugs, shifting his eyes away from the other man’s gaze, unsure of what to say. He is soon spared the trouble. 

“I will be more patient in future. You have my word, I will stay by your side as long as is necessary.”

He looks back to Valjean. “That may very well be a long time. You said it yourself: my legs may never function properly again. You should not make promises you cannot keep, Jean.”

“I intend to keep this promise. Besides, my Cosette will soon, I have no doubt, become engaged to this Pontmercy boy she is so infatuated with, and she will have no need of my company any longer.” He smiles sadly as he speaks, a fondness visible in his soft, worn eyes. 

“You speak as if she will disappear off this Earth. I see your flair for the dramatic has not waned.” Javert, once again, looks almost amused as he talks. 

“Ah, but she will have much less desire to see me once she has a family of her own. It is to be expected; I hold no resentment against her for that. Besides, it will do me good to have some companionship in my old age.”

Javert pulls an expression much akin to revulsion, but it is clear to Valjean that it is mostly meant in a playful manner. _Javert in a playful manner_ , he thinks to himself, _what an odd and wonderful spectacle to behold._ _  
_ “Do not worry, Javert. I will be here to look after you as long as you need me. ‘Til death do us part, should it be necessary!”

Valjean is almost sure he hears the not quite successful suppression of a gruff chuckle, and smiles in response. He sits with Javert only a few moments longer, ascertaining he has all he needs to be comfortable, and placing his food tray back on his lap, before leaving. The food is cold now, Javert realises, but he still eats it, perhaps a little more gratefully than he might have before.


End file.
